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Zima zeros in on women's discontent

Let's start with the name--Zima--which sounds like it
could be Serbian for "winter."

As a matter of fact, Zima is Serbian for winter, and therein
lies a rare instance where you can
define this product for what it is, as opposed to what it
isn't.

Until now, the best explanation for the "malt-based
alcohol beverage with natural flavor" is that it
isn't liquor and it isn't beer. And for nearly a year after
its introduction, the inherent mystery
provoked tremendous consumer trial.

Coors distributors loved the stuff because, in the midst
of a beer price war, it commanded a
premium price. And, niche though it was, a niche they had
all to themselves.

But after an enormously successful rollout, fed
substantially by quirky advertising piquing
curiosity about the brand, the demand for the un-beer
evaporated.

First trial, in other words, and now tribulation.

One factor may be its very un-beerness, and a cloying
sweetness that quickly engenders taste
fatigue. History shows that consumers will stray
occasionally from their beverage basics, but
won't stray for long.

The key to Coors' strategy, therefore, is to cultivate and
keep those who simply don't like beer in
the first place--which is to say, women. Whether enough
women will consistently choose Zima
over, say, the house white wine is the question upon which
hinges the brand's future.

Enter then a new campaign from Foote, Cone & Belding, San
Francisco.

One spot is set in a fancy cocktail lounge, late in the
evening, where a young man and a young
woman wait for their respective dates to arrive. She tires
of waiting however, buys him a Zima
and the two wind up departing together.

"Zima," says the tagline. "Change where you're at."

Another spot depicts three women browsing from dweeb to
dweeb through a video dating service
until the opening of a Zima magically conjures a handsome,
natural Mr. Right. And the last is
about a woman sitting down at the airport bar because her
flight to Minneapolis is delayed. The
bartender instantly understands her silent gesture as an
order for Zima, which she begins sipping
when she hears a P.A. announcement for a flight departing
for Paris.

Next thing we see is her empty glass, for this is a lady who is
both spontaneous and decisive.
Also well-prepared, compared with the many
Minnesota-bound travelers who do not carry their
passports with them in the event they might be traveling to
France on a whim.

But she, too, is changing where she's at, using alcohol and
her gold card to escape the ongoing
nightmare of being well-heeled and beautiful.

It's silly, but cunning. All of these spots tap a strain of
nagging dissatisfaction FCB seems to
have divined in young women, much as the bartender divined
the flight-delayed woman's order.
No stranger to this psychology is FCB, whose brilliant
work for Levi's for Women displayed rare
empathy with feminine frustrations, resentments and
longings.

This work may strike a similar nerve, and more women may
indeed try Zima, but all the empathy
in the world will not ensure a second try.

With the flavor of a slightly carbonated wine cooler and
just a hint of Lemon Pledge, the stuff
may get sampled by women all summer and still yield for
Coors only another brutal Zima of
discontent.